Her Hosea
by NatashaRostof
Summary: Branching off at the Elephant Love Medley, Satine is not as open-minded as Christian had hoped. Can their love survive betrayal? Will it surface at all? *Work in progress*
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer: _The names of the characters, the setting, the entire Moulin Rouge story belongs to a brilliant genius named Baz Luhrmann, (and a bunch of other people, companies, etc. I'm sure…).

_Author's Note:_  The title and bits of the plot do come from the book of Hosea in the Bible, though it's based only _very_ loosely around it, and I've taken some major poetic licenses….  Please not that I've minimized the character development to a huge degree in comparison to the movie, and that's intentional.  Also, I promise it will not be entirely a movie narration—I began this way only to give you a view into their minds, as I wanted to distinguish between the characters in the movie, and these.  Enough said?

_Dedication: _ To Liz (fool-of-a-took2), who has been all for this idea since its birth; to Bethany (Catie Zee), Miss "Let Me Read It!" …And to Crystal (Finding Beauty), the most awesome Moulin Rouge writer out there.

**Her Hosea**

_Prologue_

He grinned at her—young, boyish, yet stunningly handsome.  Uncommon, but nothing she wasn't used to. 

"We could be heroes, just for one day!" 

She shook her head, red waves swaying, her striking eyes glittering dejectedly in the cynically inviting lights of the place she called home. 

_"You…you will be mean."_

It was the simple nature of men.  Nothing against him personally—he might even have meant well, for the time being.  But uncovering one more man's true intentions was not high on her list of priorities.  She was not ready to risk her career and her title, and, though a string of temptation tugged at her heart, she set her mind against it.

She headed down the stairs towards her red room.  As she saw it, he'd had his fun with the little song, and was now more than welcome to leave—particularly, by the same means as he'd entered.  Instead, she was aware of him following behind her.

_"No, I won't!"_

_"And I…I'll drink all the time._"

She was about as low as a woman could get, but glorified for it.  Given the option, she _would_ fly away from it all, however there was a part of her that would miss the celebrative position terribly—the part of her that was an ice cold, though beautiful Sparkling Diamond.

He had followed her into the Elephant, despite her blatant hints of rejection.  He had been making such progress—all his hopes were finally materialized and were now simply _waiting_ to be fulfilled.  But something, something told him he had a long way to go yet.  Feeling that he was slipping, he asserted himself entirely; all his beliefs, all his dreams distilling into one phrase…

_"We should be lovers!"_

_"We can't do that."_

Was that a waver he detected in her solid, fixed voice?

_"We should be lovers, and that's a fact."_

She missed a beat, and then two.  His ears strained for her reply, but she simply stared at him, their previously seamless musical flow shattered; burst like a bubble, fragile in its brief beauty.

He didn't understand.  He wasn't listening to her.  Worst of all, his offer pulled at her heart so strongly that for more than a moment, she truly considered it.  Something had to happen before her heart softened and her mind changed.  _Somebody_ had to leave…_now_.

"No," she whispered fiercely, "We can't."

He blinked, and the door had slammed shut behind her.

_Final note:_ Short, I know, but it's a prologue, and…oh, fine, I just really wanted to put it up.

Somebody tell me, which is better—an entire lot of 1000-word chapters, or far fewer and farther between 4000-word chapters?  'Cause this first one is turning out loooong, unless I split it up….

"Elephant Love Medley" was put together by the makers of the movie (Baz and such, I believe…correct me if I'm wrong.)


	2. Clipped wings

Chapter 1

By the time Christian's eyes had caught up with Satine, her form was already disappearing into the shadows of the fallen night.

Shedding his jacket and dropping it carelessly on the floor, he ran out of the Elephant and dashed after her.  She wasn't too difficult to spot.  She hadn't gone far, for lack, he figured, of place to go, and running in her full courtesan's costume was far from comfortable, to say the least.  Her bright crimson dress stuck out like a sore thumb in the drab maze of bars and bordellos that was Montmartre, once the lights were out.

Worst, though, was the sound.  Christian easily followed Satine's ragged breathing and wracking coughing until he found her, gasping for breath and leaning on a wall, under the sign that read, "Bar Absinthe."  Her hacking was audible over the music and dull roar of intoxicated laughter that seeped through the bricks, and she swayed dizzily, oblivious to his presence, before collapsing backwards into his arms.

Still conscious, she shrieked, and righted herself immediately.  She was trying; oh god, she was trying…but he had seemingly made himself omnipresent, and she had to admit that part of her was grateful.  Part of Satine had _hoped_ that he would follow, and _wanted_ to believe him, to give him a chance.  But the taunting lights of the Moulin Rouge pulled her back to reality as the windmill turned, ever constant, and made its round of the sky.  Just as it had every minute of every day since she'd wandered in; lost, naive, and devoid of any sense of hope.  There, she had been given worth, and the thrill of being in the spotlight.  They loved her.

They loved her, and love was nothing so grand as this poet made it out to be.

That was the second time in one night.  Third, if you counted her fall from the trapeze.  This woman could just thank her lucky stars that someone had been there to catch her each time.  Someone who cared.

Christian took a step backwards under her uneasy frown, and looked down at his hands.  Such simple, gentle hands he clasped in front of him.  His fingers constantly itched to write, just as his heart always had ached for love.  He had come so far that night, accomplished so much.  He'd been winning the race…when the soil dropped from beneath him.  "Why did you leave?" he finally asked, softly.

"Why did you follow?"  Satine's voice was taut, and her tone accusative.

Then something in Christian changed.  As she watched, his eyes grew deeper, gazing through her, and Satine nearly turned her head to see what he was looking at.

Christian was silent for a moment, thinking, staring, then opened his mouth and began to sing quietly.

_"They've doubted me_

_Through all these years,_

_I've borne my grief,_

_I've shed my tears…_

_And finally, now, I see_

_That all these things were meant to be…."_

Satine had silenced the moment he had started singing, but now she laughed a little, and, shaking her head, turned to walk away, responding in kind.

_"You're not answering my question_

_And it's time you learned your lesson;_

_This 'love' you boast_

_Will never see you through._

_Why do you care?_

_I'm just a whore to you…."_

Though her back was turned and the distance between them growing, Satine's last, bitter words sliced into Christian, and he followed her once again, but this time remained just tauntingly far enough behind that she had to slow her pace to keep his smooth, quiet voice in earshot.

_"'Cause, truth be told,_

_They didn't think_

_That you could fly;_

_They said I'd sink_

_But together, love, together_

_Forever, love, forever_

_We'll grow our wings_

_And together, we'll fly away."_

Satine stopped in her tracks, turning her ear to him.  A lump rose in her throat.  Fly away.  Together, fly away.  Did he know how much it hurt?  He was tearing her in two, and still he continued….

_"'Cause finally_

_I see in you_

_That all I've hoped—_

_It will come true_

_When someday as I'm hopin'_

_Your eyes will truly open…."_

_"Cause, truth be told_

_They didn't think_

_That you could fly;_

_They said I'd sink._

_But together, love, together_

_Forever, love, forever_

_We'll grow our wings_

_And together, we'll fly away."_

Satine finally turned to face him, his eyes dancing in the starlight.  She smiled a little under his warm gaze, and dropped her eyes.  Words flowed from his mouth as if they'd been rehearsed a thousand times over, but from his heart more eloquently and emotionally and _spontaneously_ than even his speech.

"We've come so far 

_In one short night_

_That I can sense_

_A distant light_

_To illuminate_

_Your endless night_

_Just place your trust in me_

_And you'll begin to see…."_

_"'Cause, truth be told,_

_They didn't think_

_That you could fly;_

_They said I'd sink_

_But together, love, together_

_Forever, love, forever_

_We'll grow our wings_

_And together, we'll fly away."_

Satine's struggle was outwardly visible now, as she indecisively danced between stepping towards him or walking away, smiling and giggling, or shaking her head and sneering, before she finally put it all into words.

"I don't know why you're askin' 

_To see under what I'm maskin'_

_It's nothing anybody wants to see…_

_Behind it I'm just ordinary me._

_Please tell, why do you_

_Want for this to be?"_

He responded with an encouraging smile.

_"'Cause I can't live without you_

_There's just something about you_

_You are my hope_

_And you could be my joy…_

_So I'm beggin', love, I'm pleadin'_

_You see these things that I believe in…_

_Give me a chance_

_To loosen up_

_Those binds around your heart…."_

Binds around her heart…speaking of such, Satine finally felt miraculously free, if only momentarily.  Outside the direct shadow of the Moulin, she took Christian's hands, though timidly, and together they sang.

_"'Cause, truth be told,_

_They didn't think_

_That we could fly;_

_They said we'd sink_

_But together, love, together_

_Forever, love, forever_

_We'll grow our wings_

_And together, we'll fly away."_

All was still.  Christian beamed proudly at Satine, who smiled shyly through her lashes.

Then she frowned.  What had gotten in to her?  Perhaps she'd had a bit too much wine before her serenade of the city, atop the Elephant.  A fine idea, flying away.  Pity it was impossible.  Pity this Christian _wasn't _the most powerful duke in France, pity one needed money to live.  Yet, there he stood—clever, handsome, overall more appealing than any offer she'd ever been given…but penniless as herself the day she'd stumbled in with only the rags on her back.  And there _it_ was—the Rouge arms of the windmill rising over Montemarte, casting a shadow that now swept over her, finally consuming her.

As if she could leave it.

She snatched her hands back, and stalked quickly away.

"Satine, wait!" said Christian.

"You don't understand," she hissed over her shoulder, "You'll never understand—how could you?"

He stared after her in disbelief.  No use running after her.  Christian didn't want her caught; he wanted her to come willingly, or not at all.

Perhaps love wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

~*~

Christian slumped back in his chair.  His typewriter sat before him, blank page staring back at him idly.  His knuckles felt stiff; moreover, his brain seemed oddly slick, as though frozen over with ice—any fleeting idea that materialized inside slipped out before he could grasp on to it.

Christian heaved a frustrated sigh, rubbing sleep from his exhausted eyes.  How could he be expected to write this play—a love story, no less—after the events of that night?  While words had poured from his mouth effortlessly less than half an hour ago, merely looking at the keys of his typewriter was now more than enough to cross his eyes.

Words were sliding incessantly in and out of his mind and causing him such torment that he almost missed the sound of a light knocking from his door.

Satine was just deciding her idea a poor one and turning to leave when she heard from the room the grinding sound of a chair being pushed back abruptly, and the slap of bare feet across the wooden floor.

The door opened, and Satine could not help but smirk a bit at the look of astonishment on Christian's face.

"Satine…."  He stared at her for a moment, than jumped.  "Won't you come in?"

She wiped the smile from her face and coldly produced his jacket, wrinkled from its previously crumpled state on her floor.  "You've forgotten this."  She nodded curtly, "I'll be leaving now, thank you."

He might have known.  Only further discouraged, he shrugged disappointedly and said to her retreating back, "See you tomorrow, then."

She would see him tomorrow.  She would see him every day for the next…how long?  Month?  Six months?  Year?  And if _this_ play was a success—as it seemed sure to be, judging by his apparently endless writing talents—would he be a part of her life until she grew too old to stagger across the stage and croak out her lines?  This night did not bode well, she figured with a sigh, for their professional relationship, either.

But he'd give up eventually.  He'd realize the futility of his pleading and empty promises, and leave her to her own mind.

As long as she didn't give in first.

And that was a real possibility.  The thought had not disappeared entirely from her mind, despite her efforts.  At that thought, she nearly turned back to apologize.

"Oh…" Satine laughed at herself.  She needed to come back to reality.  A silly dreamer, that's all he was.  And that was exactly what she was afraid of becoming.

_Author's note: _ Yeah, I decided to split it.  I grow antsy having something I like sitting around in a notebook for too long while I write.  Hope it's not too short for your tastes.  More shall follow.

_Disclaimer: _ The names of the characters, the setting, the entire Moulin Rouge story belongs to a brilliant genius named Baz Luhrmann, (and a bunch of other people, companies, etc. I'm sure…).

However, in case you didn't catch this…I wrote the song.  I know, it sort of…goes against part of what makes the movie itself so unique, but…I don't often hear songs, so I had absolutely no idea what to do if not write one myself.  Which seemed to work, did it not?

Reviews are nice.  :o)


	3. If only you knew

Chapter 2 

It had been two weeks, and Satine was exhausted; despite the fact that she had grown accustomed to working on little sleep over the years, she was losing so much rest over the prospect of this Christian that he himself had begun to worry about her.

"Satine, are you feeling okay?"

She nodded quickly, smiling a little.  She could no longer truthfully say that she hadn't grown to like him, that his now subtle attempts at endearing himself to her weren't accomplishing anything.  "I'm fine, thank you," she said brightly.  Then she sighed, shifting uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair a he shuffled through his own painstakingly typewritten pages.  "Christian, would you mind if we continued this outside?  It's feeling very stuffy in here."

But once they'd settled outside under the shade of a large tree, it was Christian who seemed distracted.

"Have faith—the Maharaja shall never discover…discover…."  He trailed off for a moment, then searched among the wind-scattered papers for the one containing his line.  "Discover…."

"Our secret," Satine provided.  "The Maharaja shall never discover our secret.  Christian, dear, you used to know these lines like the back of your hand!  Now _you_ seem ill.  What's bothering you?"

He looked at her intently for a full minute, noting the concern splayed across her face, gathering his courage.  "Satine…" he finally blurted, "do you love me?"

If Satine was surprised by his question, she didn't show it.  Instead, she hesitated for a moment, considering it.  "I suppose…."

Christian frowned a bit.  That wasn't the most satisfactory answer, and certainly not what he'd been hoping for.

"Oh, Christian, is that what's been troubling you?"  She laughed softly, "You know I can't…."

He nodded slowly, unconvinced.  Then his eyes traveled up over her head, and Satine became aware of a presence behind her.  She turned to see the Duke.

"My dear Duke!  How delightful!  Do you wish to join us?"  Satine shifted over, patting the soft grass next to her flared green skirt.

The corners of his mouth turned down as he skeptically peered over his nose at the ground.  "I'm afraid that would be just a bit beneath my dignity, my dear.  Actually, I was hoping you'd join me for lunch at the little café just down the street, to discuss your…wardrobe for the performance."

Satine smiled dazzlingly and rose.

Christian, however, did not take the Duke's proposal quite as well.  "S-Satine and I were going over our—her—lines, if you could—"

"Oh, Christian, don't be silly.  This can wait until tomorrow.  Besides, I do believe I know your own words better than you do."  Behind her scornful laugh, she shot him an apologetic look, then winked at him and strode off, arm-in-arm with the Duke.

"You look simply stunning this evening, my dear."

Satine smiled modestly, but didn't care to return the compliment.  Such a lie would undoubtedly go to the Duke's head, and while that was more or less the effect she was intended to bring upon his ego, she didn't think she could bear his company if she began her flattery so early in the afternoon.  Besides—how many times had he repeated that statement in the past ten minutes?

Her ankles were beginning to ache as they continued to walk down the seemingly endless lane.  'Just down the street' had stretched to what felt like miles, and Satine had been anxiously squinting ahead for quite some time now.

To her relief, there came into view what might have been a café.  Satine opened her mouth to mention it, but just at that moment, the Duke stopped.  "Dear Satine, might you wait a moment?"

Satine glanced down the street longingly.  "Of course!  What is it, my sweet?"  Her interested smile masked the urge to gag at the term of endearment.

"My dear," he began, then frowned as she swallowed hard, through her polished mask, "You are a _great_ actress…."

_Oh, if you only knew._

"…And I have the power to make you a star.  I offer you security, for the rest of your life.  I think it would be in the best interests for both of us for you to become my wife."  His speech given, he pursed his lips, mustache twitching anxiously and blinking at her intently, and waited for her response.

Satine's eyes grew wide, and her mouth gaped open, jaw moving in a fishlike fashion as she tried to form words.  Marry this Duke?  On the surface, it didn't look all so terrible; she didn't loathe him any more than usual when it came to the men she pleased nightly…not any less, either, but regardless…marry him?  Become _his_…a chill ran up her spine at the thought.  Satine had been a possession all her life, handed from owner to owner—but in that shifting of hands, she had gained her own way of control backstage.  Her manipulative abilities gave her a certain power.  But a single man—he would learn her tricks soon enough.  And he was powerful, too….

Then again, he offered her everything she had ever dreamed of.  Fame, fortune…not to mention a slight change in career, were all well within his abilities.  But to her surprise, even the latter thought, her constant dream of 'flying away' began to frighten her, now that it was in her reach….

"I…I'll have to consider it…."  Anticipating the Duke's rage, she once again plastered on a dazzling smile, one that was self-assured, confident, and pleased beyond words.  She _was_ a great actress, indeed.  "Now, dear Duke, I've only just met you a couple of days ago—surely you wouldn't expect me to accept such an offer so soon…."

In response to Satine's cheerful tone, the Duke pouted ever so slightly and began to walk again, sulkily pushing her along beside him.  "Surely not," he muttered, and flicked an inconvenient lock of hair away from his eyes.

~*~

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and all the while, the Duke grew more and more impatient with Satine.

_And quite rightly, I might add._

Satine seemed to have all but forgotten his proposition in the first place, and he fully meant to repeat it, only they somehow got off subject at every attempt he made, much to his displeasure.

"My dear, I've been thinking…."

"Oh, have you, dear Duke?  Why, so have I!  That scene with the Maharaja on a white horse—it's entirely unacceptable.  If that silly writer truly thinks that I will cower on the filthy floor while that, that _beast_ clamors past—kicking up billows of dust—and while I'm in my full attire!  Preposterous, if I may say so…."

"But—my Dear, if you would only—"

"Why, my dear sweet Duke!  What a brilliant idea!  I _shall_ tell him, right away tonight.  The scene _must_ be rewritten, and in time for the opening tomorrow."

"Yes, now Satine, you must—"

"Oh!  My carriage has arrived.  Thank you kindly for the lovely dinner.  I shall see you promptly at seven, correct?"

"Yes, but…but…."

This could go on no longer.  If he didn't succeed that evening, he would have to go to Zidler.  Yes.  That's what he would do.

"Satine!  Satine!"  Toulouse hobbled to catch up with his friend, as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him.  "…Satine!"

Satine turned around, surprised.  "Toulouse!  I haven't seen you around lately.  What is it?"

"Oh, I'm sowwy," he panted with a grin, "I've been hewping Chwistian with the finishing touches on the pway.  He says I keep his wife intewesting."

Satine smiled down at him, humored.  "I'm sure you do.  But, do you have a message or something?"

He nodded hastily.  "The Duke has twagicawwy taken iww—you'we not to meet him fow dinnew.  Instead, Chwistian wants youw hewp fow…something…."  Toulouse left off cryptically, and patted her hand, which held her richly embellished headpiece.  Rehearsal had ended only minutes before, and the Duke's absence had sent a hundred rumors murmuring through the cast and crew.  But Satine had seen Warner out of the corner of her eye as she passed by the sick room, and didn't doubt Toulouse's sources.  "Have a nice day!"  He said merrily, then tottered away.

"Thank you, Toulouse."

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle."

Satine giggled as Christian swept the door open with a flourish.  "Hello, darling."  A wave of his arm invited her inside the small garret, and she sniffed the air with interest.  "Mmm, it smells lovely in here.  What is that?"

"The scent of love is in ze air."  Christian's eyes danced with humor as she laughed and waved his comment away.

She shook her head as he grinned.  "Silly," she chuckled.  "Really, what is it?"

"Roses."  He took his coat off the hook near the door.

"Roses?"  Satine's eyebrows met in a look of confusion.

He nodded, then gave a dramatic groan.  "Look, you're making me ruin the surprise."

Letting her puzzlement go for the moment, Satine noted that Christian had begun to put his coat on.  "Are we going out?"

He opened the door.  "After you."

"Where is Mademoiselle Satine?" the Duke rasped.  This was followed by another fit of coughing, and Marie passed a handkerchief to Warner, who looked down at the material—foreign to him—before giving it awkwardly to the Duke.  After coughing into it several times, the Duke reached for his glass of water.  Swallowing painfully, he added, "I would like to speak with her—tonight."

"But, dear Duke, you look quite uncomfortable…perhaps another time, say—"

"Tonight," the Duke snapped, cutting Zidler's protests short. 

"How is he, Marie?" Harold asked, turning to the woman.

"He shouldn't have any trouble by opening night tomorrow."

"No," said the Duke, "I want to see Satine _tonight_."

"Very well," Harold consented quickly, "I'll go find her myself."

"Where are we going, Christian?"

"Just downstairs, and to the Bar.  We can take it back up to eat."

"Mightn't the gentleman have arranged for this ahead of time?"

A playful gleam in Satine's eye suggested that she was teasing, and he responded with a similar sparkle in his own, "What makes you think I'd behave like a gentleman?  We have work to do."

"Satine's not in her room," Zidler reported later.  "She isn't in the tower, either.  I'm sure she heard of your…misfortune, and took the evening off for a leisurely stroll."

The Duke frowned.  "See that the girl is found, and brought directly to me.  I've something important to ask of her."

At this, Zidler's eyebrows shot up.  Marie gave a thoughtful look to the side, and the corners of Warner's thin lips _hinted_ that they wished to turn up—regardless, the look in his eyes told that he knew.  After only a brief moment's hesitation, however, Zidler gave an obedient nod, and Marie followed him out.

Watching from a corner, Nini waited until the Duke had dismissed Warner with an impatient wave of his hand, then had leaned back on the sick bed.  Only then did she step out of the shadows, smirking brazenly.

"Ey, Duke," she greeted him.  His head whipped around, first startled, then irritated by her unexpected presence.  Nini sat herself down on the bed, never dropping her sensual air.  "I might just know where your Satine is."

"Is that so?"

Nini cackled at this—the man was _obviously_ trying to mask his interest.  Then she commented slyly, "Ya know, I hear she knows them lines better than our writer."

The Duke's eyes narrowed.  "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," she breathed, leaning over his face, "that they've been 'practicing' an awful lot, eh?"

Edging subconsciously out from under her, the Duke frowned, his face taking on a look of disgusted realization.  "Find Zidler," he commanded.

Nini sat up, and winked at him on her way out the door.  "As you wish."

"Mm, my compliments to the chef."  Satine raised her fork for emphasis.

"Oh, don't mention it, darling," Christian said, feigning humility, "it was nothing, really."

Satine giggled.  "You don't say."  Then her voice took on a different tone.  "But from he who is penniless can come great things!"  Christian strummed an imaginary sitar, encouraging her to continue.  "For who would have guessed that I, a beautiful courtesan, should choose you as my love, over the Maharaja?"

Christian sighed softly.  "You say that so _very_ convincingly."

She shrugged, eyeing him sympathetically.  "I'm sorry, Christian.  That's my job."

Nini returned a few minutes later, with Marie in tow.  "I'm sorry, Duke, she's the only one of 'em I could find."

"Harold went out into Montmartre—Heaven knows where," Marie explained.

The Duke nodded dismissively.  "Marie, you go and check the writer's 'humble abode.'  And if you find Satine, direct her here immediately."

After a slightly awkward pause, Christian began reciting again.  "…For with no words can I, a penniless sitar player, express my love for you…."  Satine was eyeing him strangely, as he'd skipped ahead considerably, but spoke with passion.  "…And I have no gifts to offer you—only my heart.  But is that not enough to give?  For, my darling, it is true…" here he hesitated for a moment, looking into her eyes, and then saying softly, as he lifted a rose from a nearby vase, "It would illuminate my life and put joy in my heart if you should become my wife."

The door swung open.

_Disclaimer: _ The names of the characters, the setting, the entire Moulin Rouge story belongs to a brilliant genius named Baz Luhrmann, (and a bunch of other people, companies, etc. I'm sure…).

_Author's Note: _Yes!  An actual chapter-length chapter!  :o)  This is as close to fluff as I get, so enjoy it.  ::Grins.::  And the "…only my heart" thing was the words of Bethany, not so very long ago, about a certain other person's er…well, Joe.  They know who they are.  Anyway.

Do review, it only takes a few seconds.  :o)


	4. Else never 'll I be satisfied

Chapter 3 

Marie was put in quite the awkward position, to say the least.  An attempt at interpreting the expressions on Satine and Christian's faces wouldn't have done justice to the mixed emotions each of them portrayed as they blinked at her, frozen like deer in headlights.

Finally, Satine turned her head slowly back to Christian, and said softly, "Give us a moment, Marie."

Sensing the intensity in Satine's voice, and with no particular desire to do otherwise, Marie consented and left the room.  But she had to stay nearby—the Duke was waiting, and nowhere near as patiently as she herself now was.  Marie shifted uncomfortably at what she overheard through the inconveniently thin walls.

At first, all was silent for a moment.  "…Christian…sweetheart, you know I can't."

"I also know that you want to."

"I do.  Oh, I do…but Christian, I _can't_…."

"Why not, Satine?  What's holding you here?  Fly away with me…we'll make it through!  'From he who is penniless can come great things,' remember?"

"This isn't a play," she said after a moment, slowly and tearfully, "There isn't always a happy ending."

"We can _make_ it a happy ending!  Our play isn't finished yet!"

"Christian…this one isn't for you to write."

Finally growing impatient, Marie knocked stiffly on the door.

"I'd…I'd better go, Christian.  …  I'm sorry….  …Listen, I'll think about it, I'll…" Satine opened the door partially, then went back to Christian, obviously torn.  She pressed her lips to his for a brief kiss, then left the room wordlessly, closing the door behind her.

"Oh, Marie…."  Satine burst into sobs as soon as they were out of sight from the window of Christian's garret, and leaned heavily on the older woman.  "I…he…."

Marie patted her shoulder gently.  "It's all right, dearie, I know."

Satine didn't question this, only assumed the woman knew all that had happened.  "W-what should I do?"

Marie was silent until they arrived at Satine's dressing room, after some careful consideration on Marie's part, as to their destination.  A very anxious Toulouse was waiting at the door.

His face lit up the moment he laid eyes on Satine.  "Ah, you found hew!  Satine, evwyone's been wooking fow you!  Whewe did you—"

"Shush, Toulouse, I didn't find her."  Marie gave Toulouse a meaningful look.

But Toulouse was too busy blinking and staring at an apparently living, breathing Satine to notice.  "Didn't find hew?  But she's wight—"

Marie shut and locked the dressing room door.  Just then, the two heard a slight gasp and a drawn out "Ohhh…" of realization from the other side.

Noting her cautious actions, Satine asked, "Why am I 'not' here, Marie?  What's all the secrecy about?"

"You're supposed to be seeing that Duke right now," Marie explained, as she began digging through the room's wardrobes and tossing several of the less grandly embellished garments on a nearby chair.

"I got that impression," said Satine softly, frowning slightly, "…but Marie, w-…what am I doing?"

The woman stopped her hunt and emerged to speak squarely to Satine.  "I think you should go with Christian."

"_Do_ you?" Satine asked incredulously.  As long as she'd been employed at the night club, Marie had been the one she'd looked to for sound, honest advice.  Such a suggestion from the mouth of her friend was enough to enlarge her eyes a good size or two.

Marie gave a sincere nod, then proceeded with her activity.  "As soon as the show is over.  And from what I hear, that could be soon, indeed."

"What do you mean?"

There was a knock at the door.

"Into the closet—that's a good girl."  Marie saw first that Satine was hidden, then answered the door.  "Yes?"  Seeing no one at her eye level, she made to shut it again, before feeling a tug on her skirt.

"Mawie—I thought you might want to know—the Duke just sent Wawnew hewe fow Satine."

Relieved to see only Toulouse, but anxious over the reliability of his tongue, Marie asked sharply, "What did you tell him?"

Toulouse beamed with self-satisfaction.  "I said that you wewe hewping Baby Doll get weady for an especiawwy big night tonight."

Satine had timidly emerged from the wardrobe, and now looked over Marie's shoulder at the little man.  "Did _he_ say anything?"

Toulouse shook his head.  "No.  As usuaw."

"Now pray they don't see Baby Doll out and about," Marie murmered.

"Ohh, Diamond," Nini snickered to herself as she slowly made her way in the general direction of the sick room, "you've outdone yourself."  She would get to the room eventually; there wasn't any hurry.  After all, she had waited six years for this.  For six years now, Satine had stolen _everything_ from her and the other girls.  Who could resist but help this unfortunate predicament the sparkling star had gotten herself into?  "'Did _he_ say anything?'  Seems to me everyone's favorite courtesan will have a little explaining to do when the Maharaja finds out…."

"What did you mean, the show won't run long?"  Satine followed the older woman in circles around the room, as items were being tossed about.

"I mean that writer boy hasn't been sitting on his rear end all this time.  I mean he's sold his play to a big theatre in Paris—one that can top our Duke's finances before you can say 'Spectacular.'"

Satine gasped.  "You're saying…that we've lost our audience?"

Marie glanced at the girl sympathetically.  All her hopes were tied up in this show.  And for a soul with such little hope left, the last thing she needed was for someone to cut that string.  "'Fraid so, dearie.  Christian only agreed to sign once they promised to run their show only after ours, but it wasn't any use.  We've sold a third of our seats.  That poor Duke's going to go bankrupt by the time it's through…."

Satine nodded slowly in understanding.  "Ah, so this explains why I should accept Christian's offer, rather than the Duke's."

"Exactly," affirmed Marie.  "The tables are turning, girl, and we'll soon enough have a penniless Duke and a Maharaja of a writer."

Satine shivered at the thought.  Naive, innocent Christian becoming….

Christian sat, slumped in his chair at the desk, staring outside.  A slight breeze breathed through the nearby window, sending typewritten pages fluttering to the floor.

He sighed and knelt to reorder them.  _Spectacular Spectacular_ had been written and printed for weeks now—he'd had altogether too much time on his hands lately.  He supposed they would find out sooner or later that his work had been published—he'd already received his advance, and the royalties would begin coming in soon enough.  But it shouldn't interfere—with Satine as the star, how could their theatre _not_ sell out entirely?

…Satine.  His heart couldn't stand to think about her, but his mind absolutely refused to do otherwise.  And as for her parting gesture…Christian was utterly confused.

Gently replacing a now tidy play script on the desk and setting a weight on top of them, he fed a clean sheet of paper into his typewriter.  As Satine herself had said that very first night—so long ago, now, it seemed—something about Satine had always struck Christian as poetic.

With yet another despondent sigh, he softly began to sing.

_"She says she'll think_

_How can't she know?_

_My pain, my hurt_

_Has got to show._

_I can't go on_

_No use turning back_

_Without her, my life_

_Feels so off track."_

From outside his window, even the birds silenced to cock their heads and admire the song that drifted out, smooth and faultless over the clatter of his typewriter.

_"But there's nothing I can do_

_About it now_

_And there's nowhere I can turn_

_Without her now._

_Either take my hand_

_And lead the way_

_Make darkest night_

_To brightest day..._

_Or leave me here,_

_Alone to die_

_Else, never 'll I_

_Be satisfied."_

"Oh no, girl, not now!"

Satine's entire frame shook as her breathing suddenly shortened, and she stumbled to the couch, falling upon piles of selected cloth and glamorous costumes, strewn about in haste with their abandonment.

She wasn't sure how long she was out of consciousness—it felt like hours, but was probably only minutes—but she could only sit herself up for long enough to determine that she was alone before dizziness overtook her and she laid back down again.

Satine sighed, gently fingering the sequined gown next to her head.  Marie—wherever she had gone—had filled her mind with questions in their brief discussion.  Oh, why was her life so complicated?  Clearing the blood from her throat, she opened her mouth and sang in a strained voice, just above a whisper.

_"Which voice to hear,_

_Which call to take?_

_Which soul to hold,_

_Which heart to break?_

_Oh, if I knew_

_If I could see…_

_The choice that's mine_

_Is breaking me."_

She swallowed heard.  These events—her sudden spells—had become so commonplace over the past few weeks that they were now a mere annoyance.  Satine's mind was elsewhere.  She knew perfectly well that it wasn't helping her to be singing, but sometimes she felt that was all she had left.

_"And everything's_

_Upon me now_

_Nowhere I turn_

_Will help me now._

_Someone take my hand_

_And lead the way_

_I need the night_

_Can't stand the day..._

_Just leave me here,_

_Alone to die_

_Else, never 'll I_

_Be satisfied."_

Christian stopped short, his fingers frozen.  For a split second, he though his ears had caught another melody—one eerily similar to his own.  Then he shook his head, disdainful of his own silly fancies.

_"If her goal is for_

_My heart to break_

_If she wants to leave,_

_My love forsake..._

_She's on that road_

_Just journey on_

_My shattered hope_

_My hope that's gone."_

Moments later, his fingers caught up, and he yanked the page from his typewriter, reading it over with a cynical air.  Oh, how pathetic he sounded.  He could see his father's sneer now—the man's eyes would shine as he threw back his head and laughed—absolutely _roared_….  It was just as his father had said; Christian was defeated by his own very theory.

_"But there's nothing I can do_

_About it now_

_And there's nowhere I can turn_

_Without her now._

_Either take my hand_

_And lead the way_

_Make darkest night_

_To brightest day..._

_Or leave me here,_

_Alone to die_

_Else, never 'll I_

_Be satisfied."_

Marie strode purposefully towards the sick room, her brow knit with concern.  It worried her immensely that something—anything—would interfere now, while she was trying to keep the girl from the Duke, and, looking ahead, with tomorrow being opening night….

She quickly stepped behind a curtain.  Crossing her path was Nini, chortling with pleasure and singing to herself.

The Duke sat up in his bed, feeling considerably healthier for his short rest.  However, his lack of success in summoning Satine caused him to express a look of profound distaste.  He was boiling inside, and nearly ready to leap out of the bed and find Zidler—or Satine—himself.

Irked beyond other means of expression, he released his pinched lips and began to sing, his voice low and his tone quivering.

_"This oughtn't take_

_Too much regret_

_Her love is mine_

_I paid her debt._

_It's obvious—_

_Why can't she see?_

_Her only way out is_

_With me."_

_"And there's nothing she can do_

_Without me now._

_And there's nowhere she can turn_

_Besides me now._

_I will take her heart_

_I'll lead the way_

_Take her from the dark_

_Show her the day..._

_Or she'd be here_

_Alone to die_

_Else, never 'll I_

_Be satisfied."_

It was all Nini could do to keep from dancing as she neared the sick room.  Ah, how sweet was this revenge!  Ho, she knew her day would come eventually.  And this—this was the best entertainment she'd had in years.

_"She took my light_

_She stole my fame_

_For any wrong_

_I've her to blame._

_It's finally time_

_To show to all_

_This sparkling star_

_Is gonna fall."_

"Duke," she stated the minute she turned into the room, "I've been hearing some pretty interesting things 'round here."

"Interesting things?"

Marie briskly stepped behind Nini's back, retrieved the small bottle of medicine, and left again, mad inconspicuous by her casual air.  The two continued their talk in low voices as Marie headed back towards the dressing room.  While in their presence, Marie had attempted to catch what they were speaking of—the information would have undoubtedly been valuable—but the risk was too great. After all, Baby Doll was supposed to have a big night.

Meanwhile, back in her dressing room, Satine was entirely unaware that her voice was concurring with several others' at the moment.

_"If I was torn_

_How would they know?_

_It's all inside_

_Never to show._

_My heart could break_

_He'd turn his head_

_For all he cares_

_I could be dead._

_The other comes_

_Too good for true_

_And yet my heart_

_Knows naught to do."_

The doorknob turned, and Satine froze.  Then it opened quickly.  "Oh, Marie…" Satine sighed.

"You shouldn't be singing, you know that.  Now here, take this."  Marie helped pour the liquid down Satine's burning throat.

Satine winced only slightly at the familiar sensation, but wasn't daunted by Marie's words.  As soon as the initial tingle was over, she continued.

_"And everything's_

_Upon me now_

_Nowhere I turn_

_Will help me now._

_Someone take my hand_

_And lead the way_

_I need the night_

_Can't stand the day..._

_Just leave me here,_

_Alone to die_

_Else, never 'll I_

_Be satisfied."_

Marie shook her head sadly.  "You've really got some talent in you, honey.  You deserve better than this."

Satine chewed her lip.  She'd _wanted_ better her whole life.  Now she wasn't sure she wanted anything at all.  Now she wasn't sure anything was possible.  Too much was changing; she wasn't sure who to believe.

"Here you go."  Marie hefted over a large trunk, now packed by her own expert hand.  "As soon as this show is over, you and your writer need to fly away from here, just as fast as you can."

"Thank you, Marie."  Satine stepped towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

Satine shrugged.  "Back to my Red Room, I suppose."  Then she smiled.  "Don't worry, I'll be careful."

But before Marie could object, Satine had all but tripped over the Duke, who was waiting just outside the door.

"Why Satine, what a surprise," he said through his teeth, and with a false smile.

Satine yelped.  The trunk dropped to the floor with a thud, and her hand flew to her mouth.  "Oh!  Dear Duke, I was just…coming to see you!"

The Duke was obviously not convinced.  "Is that so?"  He indicated her trunk with his foot, "And what, may I ask, is this for?"

Satine's mind raced, her mouth open and ready to improvise an excuse, but Marie cut in for her.  "I was helping Satine prepare for her big evening with you tonight.  It took a bit longer than expected, as she fell i-…she soiled her stockings and skirt in the road on the way over.  We wished for her to be suited appropriately for dinner."

It was at this mention of clothing that Satine noticed for the first time the Duke's loose-fitting robe (he had, after all, come from the sick room), but wisely chose not to mention it.

The Duke was fuming.  "How dense do you think I am?" he burst, eyes darting, hair flipping wildly as he cried hysterically, "I've been seeing this woman for three months, and you expect me to believe she's taken this long primping in front of a mirror?"

Satine swallowed hard, eyes cast downward.  After a moment of silence, she said softly, "Actually, dear Duke, Marie was…advising me, in regards to my future."

"What?" the Duke asked suspiciously.

"She…she suggested that I accept your proposal."

_Disclaimer: _ The names of the characters, the setting, the entire Moulin Rouge story belongs to a brilliant genius named Baz Luhrmann, (and a bunch of other people, companies, etc. I'm sure…).

My song again.  This one isn't going on FictionPress, as it's too connected with the characters…just…nobody steal it, and we'll all be happy.  ;o)  Ever noticed how much easier it is to write songs for a character?  Fun, fun.  Anyway.__

 _Author's note: _ I know what I'm talking about.  Through the entire story.  Really.  ::Coughs.::  Ah, well.

Hmm, on a side note…I think I need a beta reader.  As I have mentioned to some people, I discovered recently that my computer had changed "Montmartre" to "Mutant" without my consent, and I had it posted that way for a while.  Grr….

I looove all you wonderful people who are kind enough to review and make my day.  :o)


	5. Broken, but fixed?

_Author's note:_ My sincerest apologies to the couple of you who have already read 2/3 of this chapter…seeing as I am becoming more and more incapable of telling my story by any means other than song…and then cannot keep my songs hidden, either because I like them, as I do the first, or dislike them and need opinions, as I do the second.  Wow, that was one _really_ run-on sentence.  Told you—I should have put it to verse.  ;)

 I sort of wanted to add one more song, but decided it excessive.  :o/  Anyway, here's the chapter.

_Chapter 4_

"Satine!  I…I wasn't expecting to find you here…now…."

Satine gave half a nervous smile.  "They…the show's over, they…posted a sign this evening after…after the show saying that tomorrow would be…the end."

Christian stared at her in astonishment, and she slipped her way into his garret.  "Why?  Why are they closing, just three nights into it?  It doesn't have anything to do with…" Christian shook his head in denial, "It _couldn't_ have anything to do with the Paris show already, could it?"

Satine nodded sadly, and wandered over to his desk.  "It's probably also my…you know, condition.  I faltered tonight—twice.  They notice things like that, and it's not good for the publicity."

As she fingered through the papers, he said hesitantly, "Is that…what you came for?  Just to tell me our show is closing?"

She seemed to ignore his question, instead lifting one sheet that seemed to be of particular interest to her.  A few moments later, she whispered, "You've certainly kept yourself busy…."

Realizing just what she had read, Christian dashed over and slipped the paper from her hands, just as a tear rolled out of the corner of her eye.

In his own handwriting, he shakily reread the words:

_Why did I believe in love_

_A thing so seldom true_

_Oh, why have I waited so long_

_For someone's heart—for you?_

_I saw you_

_In your perfection_

_You saw me_

_In my need_

_I saw your heart_

_Through ice and stone;_

_You left my heart_

_To bleed._

_You heard me_

_Tell my story_

_I heard you_

_Speak your lie_

_You heard my soul_

_All I hold true_

_And left it there_

_To die._

_I felt you_

_When you suffered_

_You felt me_

_With my dreams_

_I felt your pain_

_Pent up inside;_

_Mine's bursting_

_At the seams._

After an awkward moment of silence, Satine whispered, "Christian, I'm sorry."  Another tear fell, her makeup running, and her voice cracked as she cried softly, "I'm so sorry, Christian…I'm so sorry…it's not true.  None of it's true."

"What?"  Christian took a step towards her, then hesitated.  And for good reason; there could have been a solid wall between the two of them, for the awkward, painful distance.

She smiled a little, and looked into his eyes, her wet eyelashes blinking in furious effort to restrain more tears.  "I love you, Christian."

He froze.  He felt like his heart was going to stop altogether.  "W-what do you mean?  You're marrying the Duke, you…."

She froze.  What had she said?  She never meant to _feel_ such a way, much less allow her voice to express it.  But she had a lie to correct.  "No," Satine said softly, "I'm not.  Will you still fly away with me, Christian?"

At his hesitation, she slowly began to sing.

_"Darling, I'm sorry_

_For what I said_

_And, love, forgive me_

_If your heart bled_

_All over what I've done."_

Christian's eyes welled up and he looked away.

_"Oh, what **have** I done?_

_"I'm sorry, darling_

_I hope you can see,_

_And find it in your heart_

_To forgive me._

_I've hurt you, and_

_I understand,_

_But honey, I must say…_

_Baby, I'm sorry_

_About all this pain_

_And, oh, I promise_

_It won't happen again._

_The sun can finally shine."_

Satine winced slightly upon seeing his eyes still wet and downcast, and she slowly walked away from him, over to the window.  She leaned against the wooden pane.  They made a good pair, she thought; she felt weak with guilt, but at least it was strong.  Just like she used to be.

_"Oh, when **will** it finally shine?_

"I'm sorry, darling

_I hope you can see,_

_And find it in your heart_

_To forgive me._

_I've hurt you, and_

_I understand,_

_But honey, I must say…_

_Sweetheart, I'm sorry_

_For the trouble I've caused_

_And, now, let's see that_

_No more time is lost._

_Let's finally grow our wings."_

Satine glanced back at Christian.  He was watching her now—an improvement.  She smiled a little.

_"Now we **can** grow our wings._

_Let's fly away."_

At long last, a smile grew on his face.  After all, he mused, she was offering all he'd ever hoped for.

_"Come what may…."_

A bit startled by the interjection into her own song, Satine nearly did a double take upon realizing that the soft, low voice was coming from Christian.  She had been forgiven.  She felt a huge weight being lifted off her shoulders, and she breathed a sigh of relief, marveling that she suddenly felt strong again, and at the same time wondering why he mattered so much to her.  

But after all, she mused, he was offering all she'd ever hoped for.

_"Let's fly away"_

_"Come what may"_

_"Let's fly away"_

"I will love you" 

_"Leave our worries to"_

_"Until my dying day"_

_"Another day"_

Satine's voice caught in her throat for a second.  Love—something she'd always tried to escape, was so thick around her she could feel it's radiation.  Months ago, she would have fled.  But here, with Christian, this love and her dream of flying seemed to blend so well….

_"And there's no mountain too high"_

_"We'll spread our wings; away we'll fly"_

_"No river too wide"_

_"Leave our sorrows behind"_

_"Sing out this song, and I'll be there"_

_"Now we're together, every care"_

_"By your side"_

_"'S set aside"_

_"Storm clouds may gather"_

_"Our hearts will be opened"_

_"And stars may collide"_

_"And binds be untied…"_

Had someone predicted this turn of events half an hour ago, Christian would have laughed scornfully, and then probably thrown a bitter remark back at the prophet of sorts.  In fact, it all seemed like something Toulouse would have dreamed up—perfectly, almost unrealistically romantic.  Like a fairy tale, or a dream.  But Christian never wanted to wake up.

"But I love you"

_"Because I love you"_

"Until the end"

_"Let your soul blend"_

"Of time"

_"With mine."_

Satine had drawn her knife and stabbed the girl through the heart.  With a grinding crunch, the blade had slid through the frozen rock, and it had shattered.  Satine beamed.  Victory.  She'd freed herself from the Diamond; there was nobody left to resist this now.

_"Come what may"_

_"Let's fly away"_

_"Come what may"_

_"Let's fly away"_

_"I will love you"_

_"Leave our worries to"_

_"Until my dying day"_

_"Another day"_

Grasping each others' hands tightly, they each leaned in and shared a kiss.  Sweet and perfect, it sent tingles up each of their backs as if it was their first.

And in a way, it was.

_"Come what may"_

_"Let's fly away."_

~*~

The Duke paced back and forth across the room, moustache twitching furiously, and hair dancing in front of his eyes in a most unruly—and irritating—fashion.  Warner stood at the door silently, as usual.

Harold shifted anxiously behind his desk, eyeing Warner with a hint of apprehension.  "Dear Duke, let me assure you I had no choice, but—"

"This show can _not_ come off the stage yet, Zidler; I won't have it!  We agreed to—"

"But Duke—"

"Don't interrupt me!  We're discussing important matters here, Zidler, and I want them solved.  The show _will_ go on the night after next, and the following, and continue until my expenses are paid!"

"But, Dear Duke…we've sold thirty-seven seats for this next night.  Just thirty-seven!  It would do more harm than good, let me assure you, to—"

"Zidler, the show will go on.  The show _must_ go on, or I'll…" he paused, glancing behind him to see Warner smirking smugly, and then turned his attention back to the stout man who was sweating profusely before him.  He pursed his lips in thought.  "Did you say the writer had anything to do with this?"

"Y-yes…" Zidler stuttered, "he p-played a small p-part in our little…" he swallowed, "i-inconvenience, but—"

"Then, the show will go on."  The Duke's eyes narrowed menacingly.  "Or I'll have the boy killed."

Zidler's eyes widened.  "I understand."

~*~

Satine jerked away suddenly.  "Christian…" she choked.  Then she fell limply into her poet's arms.

_Disclaimer: _The names of the characters, the setting, the entire Moulin Rouge story belongs to a brilliant genius named Baz Luhrmann, (and a bunch of other people, companies, etc. I'm sure…).

Yes, my poem/song, and my song, as usual, except for the parts from "Come What May."  I did write Satine's parallel to the song she read of Christian's, but as it didn't quite fit inside the story, it's only on FictionPress, here: …Okay, fine, just take out my link….

_Another author's note: _Very short…sorry, but I wanted it out, and that seemed an appropriate place to stop.  ;)  And, don't expect another update any time soon—I've got exams next week.

Hm.  I'm a little discouraged by the decrease in reviews—it simply makes me wonder if people have given up on this…I hate to say this, as it might cause people to take the easy way out simply because I've offered it, but…if you're not going to review anyway, could you just go, "I read it," and at least give me that?  I would appreciate it.  :o)


	6. A fool to believe?

Chapter 5

It certainly didn't help matters that Satine was carried to the sick room by none other than Christian James himself, nor did it bring a smile to anyone's face that the Duke, too, had already occupied the room as of five minutes before then, and was recovering from a similar bout.

As little as Christian enjoyed the idea of leaving an unconscious Satine with the Duke—especially when that Duke was glaring heatedly at him all the while—he found at least a bit of comfort in noticing that Harold stood just inside the doorway, not to mention the ever-present Warner just outside it.

Once Christian had left, silence hung like a think blanket over the room, causing Harold to shift uncomfortably as the Duke stared pointedly at Satine, waiting impatiently for her to wake up.  Just then, Marie came bustling into the room, snapping orders at Harold to retrieve the canister from such a drawer, and a handkerchief from that other dresser.

Satine awoke quickly enough to the liquid searing its path down her crusted throat, and continued to cough up what had been loosened into the handkerchief, tainting its ivory perfection with drops of her own crimson blood.  She vaguely wondered how it was that every time, she was given to stain a new, glowing white cloth, but then her head spun and she closed her eyes to shut out her surroundings.

Upon doing this, memories of the past few hours came flooding back, and Christian came to mind.  "Where is he, Marie?" she rasped.

Marie turned from where she was helping the Duke, and asked, "Where is who, child?"

"Christian?"

The Duke's lip curled.

"He's up writing, just as usual.  Now you get yourself some rest before the show tonight."  Having finished what she could do, Marie left that as a final bidding and left the room.

After a moment, the Duke spoke up.  "I spoke with Marie earlier," he put on a smile, and though it wasn't entirely forced, it looked most unnatural on him, "about our wedding preparations."

Satine sighed inwardly.  "Oh, yes?"

Now the corners of the Duke's thin lips dropped, as he noted her apparent lack of interest in the subject.  "Yes, in fact.  She's arranged it to be right her in our beloved Moulin Rouge, the very night after the show's over."

Satine gasped, and sat upright with a start.  "To-tomorrow night?" she cried.

"No, Pumpkin."

Just noticing Harold at the door, Satine's brow knitted in confusion.  "But, tonight is…."

"Despite what you may have been told," the Duke's eyes narrowed in Zidler's direction, "the show will _not_ be closing tonight."

"The show must go on," said Harold weakly.

"…Or the writer," the Duke finished in a menacing tone, "will be killed."

Satine's breath caught in her throat.  "Christian?  Why, what does he have to do with anything?"

"He has everything to do with it," the Duke said in a tight voice, his tempter rising.  "You might as well know that he sold _our_ play to some high class shindig in _Paris_, and this is what has become of it."  Now he turned to Zidler, enraged, and driven by his own fury.  "I've exhausted every penny I can afford, and I want it repaid.  There are no two ways about it, Zidler; this show will go on, with or without an audience!"

Harold took a step backwards in defense.  "It will go on, dear Duke, there's no need to get upset…."

Another realization seemed to dawn on the Duke, and he turned his attention back to Satine, squinting his eyes in suspicion.  "You knew nothing about this, am I mistaken?"

Satine let out a shallow laugh.  "Duke, don't be silly.  It's all news to me, let me assure you."  Simply for good measure, she added, "Anything I hear goes directly to you, my dear."

He nodded, satisfied.  "Good.  Then it's settled."

Satine rose and gathered her medicines.

"Where are you going, gosling?  Marie said you should rest…."

She slipped past him, and then turned with a slight smile.  "I'll be resting in my room, Harold."  Heading down the corridor, she muttered to herself, "Perhaps there I'd actually be able to rest…."

Satine's thoughts raced as she strode toward Christian's garret with a growing sense of urgency.  If she stayed for the show to go on…she'd be wed to the Duke in the blink of an eye, and before anyone could suggest another way about it.  If the show _didn't_ go on…she shuddered at the thought.

At the same time, a little voice in the back of her head was screaming with rage.  _What the hell do you think you're doing?_ it hissed, _Running to some poor, fantasy-driven writer for…what, for love?  Love, Satine?_

She nodded resolutely.  "Yes."

_You're going to regret this,_ it warned.  _There's no telling how long this 'love' is going to line your pockets._  Then it laughed—a shrill, cold laugh that sent icicles shivering down her spine.  _You really think it's going to?  You are a fool, Satine.  A fool.  You're a fool to believe.  A fool to—_

"I thought I'd killed you!" she whispered so fiercely that a passing man turned and gave her a crazed look.

…But it had been silenced.

As Satine stood outside Christian's door and waited to be let in, it occurred to her how very often the stage was set this way, her standing outside his garret, and also how little he'd escaped the walls of his room lately.  However, she conceded, it seemed that every day his stack of written work doubled in height (not to mention its state of disorder).

She half wished she could invite him outside for a bit of fresh air while she passed on the news she'd been given earlier, but being seen together with him would only add to her problems.

So with a sigh, she finally opened the door gently and poked her head in.  Christian was sitting at his typewriter, as usual, his eyes fixed intently on the page before him as his fingers struggled to keep up with his mind.

After a moment, he tore his eyes from the piece of paper to cast an acknowledging side-glance in Satine's direction, and held up one finger for a brief second, before it was needed back on the keys.

Satine smiled and stood patiently, smirking a little at his state.  The water-heavy towel over the back of his chair indicated that he'd been in the shower when inspiration struck him, and his untucked, unbuttoned shirt and yesterday's trousers only served to further the evidence, proving that this must have been some grand idea.

As if to put a stamp of authenticity on her analysis of the scene, Christian then pulled the sheet from his typewriter and stood with an air of self-satisfaction.  "Done."

"May I see?" Satine asked, stepping towards him.

Christian hesitated, looked at it again, and shook his head.  "That's just the first rough draft," he said modestly.

"Oh," said Satine.  After a short silence, she spoke up again.  "Well, I came to talk to you about…there's a lot going on with the show that…" she sighed, "we need to talk about.  May I sit down?"

~*~

Stage lights burned, casting splashes of color to dance upon the already red, blue, and gold-filled stage.

Music whirled.  Dancers spun.  Colors blurred.  Crowds roared.

Satine collapsed.

The show went on.

No one rose to sing.

But the music, the dancers, the colors continued as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, as if all was well and as planned.

The people were pleased only when the Diamond rose at long last.

And the show went on.

~*~

The Duke summoned Satine promptly after the performance that night.

She stumbled into the Gothic Tower exhausted, irritated, and coughing like a choking child.  But the Duke rose from where he'd been seated, routinely kissed her hand, and led her to the table.

"So good of you to meet me here, my dear," he said.

Satine put on a smile and swallowed hard.  "Is it anything important?  Forgive me, but I truly must be getting to bed…" she then corrected herself, "must be getting home soon."

"Ah, yes, quite a performance you gave tonight, my dear."

_Quite a performance I'm _giving_ tonight, you might add._  "Well, it wasn't without its flaws."

"You behaved splendidly," he assured her.  Here, he ceremoniously beckoned a butler to produce a large velvet box.  The Duke placed it before Satine, his tight smile giving way to a look of solemnity.  "I meant this to be a betrothal gift, and found this to be an appropriate opportunity to present it to you, my dear."

Perplexed, Satine lifted its luxurious lid to reveal an extravagant, intricately diamond-woven choker.  Satine's eyes widened.

"Oh, my dear, sweet Duke…how can I ever accept this?"

The girl in her head squealed with delight.  _It's beautiful,_ the voice chirped, _it's all you'll ever need.  It's all you've ever needed!  Why change now?_

Back in his garret, Christian repacked the few things he'd brought when he first arrived in Montemartre, along with an odd or end he'd accumulated here or there.  His written work was neatly sorted, for a change, and enclosed in a makeshift portfolio.

With the size of bags he'd packed, one would have thought him going to a nearby inn for a night or two, at very most.  But this was all he really needed.  It was all he'd ever needed, really.

No need to change now.

_Disclaimer: _ The names of the characters, the setting, the entire Moulin Rouge story belongs to a brilliant genius named Baz Luhrmann, (and a bunch of other people, companies, etc. I'm sure…).

_Author's note:_  ::Blinks.::  No songs.  Can you believe it?  I can't.  But anyway, this took a while for yet another really short chapter.  I don't know what's getting into me.  I had to post this, though—it had been altogether too long.  (Die, writer's block, DIE!!)

Oh, and Bethany darling, you've got me entirely wrong.  Chop off my hands and I'll learn to write with my feet.  There's no stopping me.  I was just wondering if people had given up on this story, not wondering if I should stop writing it.  ;)

It shouldn't take me as long to write the rest *crosses her fingers* because I've finally finished an outline for it.  So…that's my hope.

Constructive criticism?  Please?


	7. Here's cold reality

_Chapter 6_

"What do you mean, Satine has consumption?"  The young man stared at his friend, anxious and bewildered.

The older man nodded solemnly.  "I heard it from a good, reliable source.  'The Sparkling Diamond's dying,' he said.  And I don't doubt 'im a bit, no sir, I don't."

The younger man's eyes grew wide.  "You don't suppose she had it…nine weeks ago, Thursday night, do you?" he asked urgently.

The other's lips thinned to form a firm line.  "Can't say she didn't."  He gave his friend a grave look.  "You'd best get yourself in to a doctor."

"Half the men in town will be waiting there in line, if they heard what you heard!  You're sure it's true?"

"My nephew's kept up with his old friend who's a frequent visitor to that club.  He heard it straight from his girl's mouth.  And you saw her in that play, of course…."

~*~

Realization stabbed into Satine's stomach like a double-edged sword.  It had all seemed so far off…the show's end, her supposed wedding, her inevitable funeral.  But when she'd been hit with all three the moment she'd stepped into the Moulin that morning, she was absolutely overwhelmed.

"It's over, Satine," they'd told her.  The news of her sickness had spread overnight, and now, she was told, the entire city had begun to regard the club as if it was teeming with the disease; nobody came near it, save for the girls who couldn't avoid it.

Not a seat had been sold for that night; not a single ticket.  On top of it all, the Duke feared further publicity, lest news of his similar condition leak out and be exposed.

And so, the show was called off.

Now that it was over, _truly_ over, Satine felt suddenly crushed.  She had been so preoccupied these past few weeks that the rush of the stage and the glory of an audience, the feeling of character and the freedom of becoming another person, even a courtesan, had been overwhelmed.  She'd been living her dream, and barely noticed.

But now that dream was over.

With the last performance having been the night before, the stage was being redecorated—now for a wedding.  _Mine,_ she realized as she walked numbly into the auditorium after talking with Zidler, and saw the Duke beaming hungrily at her from a front row seat as if he'd won a great prize and couldn't wait another moment to claim it.  That night—that very evening, she would be wed to a single man, owned for the rest of her life.

That prospect frightened her beyond anything she'd ever faced before.

"Tonight, my dear, you will become my bride," he said over the rows of chairs with an ambitious smile.

She had to act now; whatever she was planning had to be carried through that very evening.  Again, she was overcome by a feeling of complete and utter helplessness.

That was when the doctor had entered, a grave look in his eyes, followed by Marie, and the regular tag-along, Baby Doll.  The latter made eye contact with her for a moment, and Satine was altogether shocked to perceive what she correctly read as _pity_ on the other girl's face.  But then Baby Doll broke the contact, and averted her eyes in shame.

"Mademoiselle Satine?" the doctor said slowly.

"Yes," she responded, lifting her chin to feign self-assurance.

"Perhaps we'd better sit down for a moment," said Marie, softly.

Satine raised an eyebrow and followed in order.  But something burned in the pit of her stomach, something washed through her head such a feeling of dread that she felt she knew what was coming.

"We thought it best not to tell you until after the show, and there's still no easy way of saying this…" he began again.

"What is it?" Satine asked apprehensively, becoming aware of her death grip on the wooden chair she sat in, that had turned her knuckles nearly as pale white as her face.  Marie crossed herself, muttering something and looking towards the ceiling, and an entirely new emotion swept through Satine—panic.  She bit her lip, and stared evenly at the doctor, knowing he would soon enough proclaim her fate.

"I regret to inform you that you have consumption."

She blinked.  "W-…I-I knew that, or at least I'd assumed it…."

"You're…dying, Satine."

Today, all her dreams had ended.

_Today's the day when dreaming ends_

_I've woken from my night_

_But all it's done is reinforce_

_That I can't stand the light._

_I guess I'd better wake up,_

_Open my eyes and see_

_Gone's the certainty of yesterday_

_Here's cold reality._

_The sun's too harsh, it's beam exposes_

_All my faults the shadows hide_

_What once looked like a bed of roses_

_Revealed its thorns, shriveled, and died._

_I guess I'd better wake up,_

_Open my eyes and see_

_Gone's the certainty of yesterday_

_Here's cold reality._

It was in that state, numb and shaken, that she stood for what would be her last time ever before the doorway of Christian's garret.  In her hand she grasped the leather handle of the suitcase Marie had hastily packed together.  That day seemed so long ago, now.  But then again, several years had passed in the last couple of hours.

One look at Satine, and Christian pulled out his case, quickly covered and latched his typewriter, and met her at the doorway, his face revealing an assortment of emotions ranging from excitement to terror.

It wasn't as if he hadn't done anything like this before.  It was with almost greater trepidation that he'd abandoned his father's house in the black of night with dreams to start a new life.  But the second time certainly wasn't the charm.

Had Satine been asked to recall the details of their escape that afternoon, the story she told would have been blurred and full of holes.  The pain in her spine and hips had become all but unbearable, and her head spun as if she'd just gone through a washer and been wrung dry.

Christian, however, was as alert as he'd ever been, as Marie silently took their trunks out to a waiting carriage, then instructed them to board it separately, and from different locations.

The driver waited patiently through this, obediently following Marie's stern directions, and now expecting further instruction from the young couple to whom his service belonged.  Receiving none after a minute, he glanced back at them.  Both looked more than anxious to get moving.  "Where to for you young lady and gentleman this afternoon, hmm?"

The two looked uncertainly at each other.

"J-just take to the other side of the Odéon - Théâtre de L'Europe," the young man said, after a moment.

The young woman's eyebrows came together.

"Is that right with you, ma'am?"

She glanced at the young man, and the driver noted a bit of an uncomfortable tone between them.  "I suppose…" she relented.

The driver turned back around and started them on their way.

"Just into Paris?" Satine asked softly, "Shouldn't we go somewhere…else?"

Christian looked down at his hands.  "Well, I-I'm expected to be there for the opening of …the show…."

"Ah," said Satine, crossing her arms in front of her and turning her head to watch the city amble by as the horses' steady gait brought them from the place she'd called home for nearly as long as she could remember.

"If you'd prefer to go elsewhere…" Christian offered quickly, and then stopped.

_Then what?_  Satine thought, _I'm welcome to do so?  _"No, that's fine," she consented, "As long as we're not found."

The driver couldn't help but overhear their conversation.  _They must be planning to elope,_ he thought.  But he vaguely wondered if so, why it was that he could feel the tension in the air from his seat in front.  _None of your business_, he scolded himself, _keep your nose clean, and the beeswax with its rightful owner._

Satine pursed her lips tightly.  _Oh, I told you!_ the girl gloated, almost gleefully.  _Here he cares more for his precious play than he does for you, Satine.  You see now?  And that's not the end of it, you know it's not.  He ruined your chance to be a star, in favor of this play.  He ruined your dreams, Satine.  What did I tell you?  What have I been telling you all along?_

Inside her head, Satine had no voice to argue back.  What she considered her own thoughts were too weak to stand up against this chilling one, both sickeningly sweet and repulsively sour.  But she wouldn't open her lips to verbally reprimand her own mind while Christian was sitting right there.  She _couldn't_.  So she had been defeated.

Christian eyed Satine worriedly.  Her basic body language indicated clearly that she'd not taken his words well.  _What did I say?_ he wondered, mentally kicking himself for not watching his words more carefully.  _I don't care about the show,_ he reminded himself, half wanting to burst out and voice this.  But on the other hand, they shouldn't be found amidst the hubbub of Paris.  And the show would get them money, which they would need to make a new life.  After all, she couldn't possibly expect to continue her former job now, could she?

The only words that broke the stiff silence after what felt like an excruciatingly long ride were, "Any specific motel?"

_Disclaimer: _ The names of the characters, the setting, the entire Moulin Rouge story belongs to a brilliant genius named Baz Luhrmann, (and a bunch of other people, companies, etc. I'm sure…).

_Author's note:_  Two days.  I just wrote an entire chapter (though again, shamefully short) in…_two_…_days_.  :D  The song wasn't real polished, I know…but I stuck it in there (literally) anyway.  *Sigh*  Ah, well.  I'm getting somewhere now.

I repeat: constructive criticism?  Please?


	8. A fish out of water

_Chapter 7_

"Should I wear anything…specific?" said Satine, as she sorted indecisively through her sparse wardrobe in the room they shared on Boulevard Berthier.  She was, in truth, astounded by the number of large, ruffled skirts Marie had managed to stuff into one relatively small case, and with only minimal wrinkling.

Christian's head popped in from the bathroom, where his hair was being tousled dry with moderate success.  "You'll look gorgeous in anything, sweetheart."

Satine smiled a little, but said with a sigh, "That's not much help."

"I'm sorry," said Christian, retreating back into the bathroom.  "I'm not much for fashion, you know."

Satine could all but see his grin through the walls, she was so certain of its presence.  "Ah," she smirked.  "Well, I suppose it will look silly for you also if I show up dressed absolutely appallingly…."

"Impossible!" came from the bathroom.

"Care to place a bet on that, monsieur?"

"If you wish," he responded, "As long as you're not thinking of your dresses from the show…."

Satine eyed her costume longingly, having slipped in at the last possible moment on a haphazard afterthought.  The thought had occurred to her, actually…what would happen if two Hindi courtesans appeared?  She pictured the confusion sardonically.

At her silence, Christian said worriedly, "Satine?"

"Don't be silly!" she laughed, and shoved the dress to the back.

Christian was impressed by the size of the building as they approached it that evening, but not near so much as Satine.  "It's…huge, she breathed as they made their way up the stairs and between the massive pillars.  It was all she could do not to rush Christian in her desire to see the interior.

They were intercepted almost immediately, however, by a man who seemed about in his mid-forties, despite the deceiving silver-gray hair that capped his round face.  "Monsieur Christian, you made it," he stated with pleasure, beaming at the two of them as he strutted to meet them just outside the doors of the Odéon - Théâtre de L'Europe .  Satine caught a fleeting glimpse of red and gold corridor before the door slid shut again.  "Come right along with me, I think we might get you introduced to the cast before the show begins!" he said enthusiastically, clasping Christian's hand eagerly.  "Christian James, if I'm not mistaken?"

Christian nodded, reflecting the man's radiant grin.

"Jean DuPont.  Pleasure.  And who is this stunning lady you've brought with you tonight?"

As Satine followed his gaze up and down her body, she felt a pang of recognition that she dearly hoped was unaccounted for.  _From your trapeze, they all look quite identical,_ she reminded herself._  You'd be perfectly comfortable with this situation back home, wouldn't you?_

Alarmed to find herself referring to the Moulin as "back home," and at the same time, utterly unnerved by her present position, she quickly said, "Satine," and left it at that, her perfect smile finishing the job.

"Ah," said DuPont, turning back to Christian with a start, "right this way, then."

Satine only smirked.  Christian had noticed the momentary exchange, and if the daggers shooting from his eyes at the other man could have materialized, the amount of blood spilt that minute would have caused quite a scene. 

If there was one thing that infuriated Satine, it was feeling second best.

And that was more or less _all_ she'd felt that day.

All morning—all week, really, if not longer still—the focus had been on the show.  Not _her _show, per say, but the one she'd been robbed of.  The Odéon Theatre's show.

The show, performed on a far superior stage to the one quickly constructed in the Moulin—that one, makeshift in comparison, paled alarmingly against the one that stood mere meters in front of Satine now.  Hers shone where this one glistened, echoed where this one resounded, presented where this one vaunted.

This was made all the more obvious if one had lived with a writer named Christian all the while, as Satine had.

And Satine had never, ever felt the catch deep in her stomach that she eventually made out to be _jealousy_, before this evening.

As Christian had shaken hands with the Hindu Courtesan (who wore a more extravagantly gold-laced gown and had larger eyes and fuller lips then Satine could ever recall seeing, for all her time in show business), Satine's mind had turned a modest smile into a suggestive smirk, and a level gaze into a lustful stare.  This altogether foreign sensation burned its way up her middle until she wordlessly tugged Christian along.

But the worst part was that…he knew.  He could see through her, a feat that had come in handy ever since that day they'd met with such false exteriors.

They had taken so few steps when, after a side glance at Satine, Christian drew her to him and kissed her warmly.

…Which should have solved everything, she reminded herself as the lights dimmed and he took her hand in anticipation.  But somehow, somehow it seemed that he'd only succeeded in confusing her further.

The stage lights rose then, as did the curtain.  The crowd issued an audible intake of breath as red- and gold-clad dancers began to fill the stage, and their voices filled the air.  Now a mesmerized hush fell over the people.  _Such a familiar reaction,_ Satine thought.  The scene before her was less than familiar, however; she'd never seen it from this perspective.  There she sat in a plush red seat in the audience—a fish out of water.  Not only out of the spotlight, she was out of the whole picture.

She eyed Christian, watching proudly.

Something was wrong.  Christian could feel it—in the air, and also, quite literally, in Satine's hand.  She was as tense as he'd ever seen her, but held his hand reluctantly, as if afraid of even that diminutive commitment.  Was it possible that she was…_wary_ of him, for some reason that must have eluded his imagination?

Whatever was wrong, he watched tears form and grow in her eyes with silent alarm.  However, when Satine glanced over to find him staring at her anxiously (_irritably?_), the scorching look she threw him was enough to make him avert his eyes, restricting himself to an inconspicuous glance now and then.

For that reason, he was justifiably shocked when she stood and quickly fled the theatre, ignoring furious whispers, her skirt floating gracefully behind her.

"Satine, darling, what is it?"

It was Satine's turn to be startled as Christian, having left a crowd (angry at the disturbance), came running to where she stood, leaned against the stone wall of the theatre.  She quickly swallowed her rage and hurt to give him as empty an expression as she could muster.  Only one excuse came to the top of her head.

"I felt ill for a moment," she explained quickly, "but didn't see any need to create a scene."

Not entirely convinced but concerned nonetheless, Christian reached towards her and said, "Are you sure you'll be alright?  Perhaps we should call a carriage—you ought to rest, if there's any chance…."

As soon as the words had left her mouth, Satine regretted them.  Of course, this would only worry him further.  She smiled reassuringly and spoke as he trailed off.  "No, I'm fine now.  It's passed."

If only he would clarify his priorities….One way or the other would make all the difference.

_Why do you care, anyway?_

_Disclaimer: _The names of the characters, the setting, the entire Moulin Rouge story belongs to a brilliant genius named Baz Luhrmann, (and a bunch of other people, companies, etc. I'm sure…).

_Author's note:_  Yet another short chapter.  Perhaps I should be getting used to them, though I dislike the prospect….This was…well, _more_ than I actually had planned for it.  Does the last line seem melodramatic?  I'm afraid it might….

Anyway, many thanks to reviewers, and also to my mother (isn't this a first?!) for letting me use her typewriter—then I _had_ to write something!  :D

Constructive Criticism?  :D  (I'm gonna keep on asking for it.  Thanks go to Ben, the single person brave enough to give it.)


	9. I thought I'd shown

Chapter 8

_I thought I'd shown_

With the success of the show, Satine and Christian had been able to move into a modest-looking flat with a reasonably low rent within two weeks, though barely.  Granted, Satine had all but taken up partial residence in the local hospital, for all an anxious Christian brought her there on a paranoid whim, if nothing more.

At the moment, they were sitting for dinner around a small wooden table meant for two.  Christian's perhaps overly romantic side had prompted him to furnish rose-colored cloths for under the dishes, and two candles, which had seemingly become permanent decorations – each time Satine had moved them, because they collected dust, or because she was in a foul mood and only frustrated by such silly fancies, they found their way back.

New to the scene this evening, however, was the silence that had settled over the two of them.  A typical dinner had become more and more filled with polite compliments on the food, ("Mm, darling, this is delicious.  I didn't know you could cook, Satine!"); on the progress of the show, ("I think the show's doing quite well, don't you?"  "Splendidly, yes."); or on the furnishing of their flat, ('I think we could do with some curtains in here – white lace, perhaps?"  "Whatever you wish, love").  But tonight, Christian seemed to be focusing particularly hard on his food.

Satine watched Christian out of the corner of her eye, expecting him to explain his silence any minute, until finally she grew impatient, and said, "Christian, what is it?"

He set down his utensils and glanced up at her, a troubled look on his face.  "Something's wrong.  I know something's wrong, Satine, I feel it; I've felt it all along – ever since…well, ever since we left the Moulin.  Won't you ever tell me what?"

She stood slowly, arranged her napkin by her plate, and wandered over to the settee, not particularly eager to have the heart-to-heart discussion he seemed to be suggesting.

Now far more nervous than he'd been even a matter of seconds ago, Christian remained seated and watched Satine uncertainly, hoping she'd speak.

She did, as offhandedly as possible.

"It's nothing."

…Certainly not what he had expected to hear.  One of the last things he had _hoped_ to hear, also.  One could not fix 'nothing'.  Then again…he supposed he _should_ have anticipated a response of the sort.  Satine definitely was not one to open up and wear her heart on her sleeve, he knew.

Perhaps sewn into her sleeve, between layers of silk and satin.

"It _isn't_ nothing, darling," he said, standing, and moving towards her.  She sat on the couch.  He sat next to her.

Satine turned her head to hide the tears forming in her eyes – they were, of course, entirely unbidden, and she desperately wished they would…_stop_.  Nobody cried over nothing – Christian would know that.

Christian took her hand – the one that wasn't covering her face – from her knee.  "Satine…" he prodded gently.

She hesitated, then admitted, her voice wavering, "It's not…it's not nothing."

"I know," he said softly.

Damn him, _how_ did he know?  How could he tell everything?

A voice inside Satine's head laughed.  _Quite the mystery, isn't it?  The tears, perhaps…. _Satine wiped one away, quickly._… Or maybe your silence…or, even just that you've been downright cold since day one.  Take your pick, Satine; you've certainly lost your touch._

"It's that…" she rolled her eyes up towards the ceiling in a furious effort to keep them from overflowing.  Upon accomplishing this, she turned towards him, and met his gaze evenly.  "I'm used to being the star," she said truthfully.  "I need the people, the attention – I _need_ it.  That's…that's what I live for."

Christian stared at her.

Satine rose, walking over to the window.  "Oh, I couldn't possibly expect you to understand."

"You're…you're _my_ star, love," he insisted helplessly.  "Can't that be enough?"

She turned to look at him with a sad half-smile.  "No, it can't."

Christian couldn't believe his ears.  "There are other things…. Shows, plays, all around Paris!  And I'm writing another – you can be the star of all of them!"

Satine looked back out the window, feeling those detestable tears forming again.  "I can't, either.  It won't work, Christian.  I'm _sick_."

Neither spoke for a minute.

"How sick, darling?" he asked slowly, now alarmed.

"I'm…I'm d-…I'm…."  Satine bit her quivering lip, her mind racing to reach a quick decision.  "I'm d-dreadfully sick."

"Oh…" Christian murmured, standing, and coming over to wrap his arms around her.  "You'll be okay.  All we need is love, and you have all of mine."

She moved out of his embrace and looked at him with a pained expression.  Slowly, she said, "Do I?"

The blow might as well have been physical; it was moments before Christian remembered to breathe.

"Of…of _course_…" he stuttered hoarsely.

Outside the window, a majestic sunset was beginning to streak the sky.  But rain could have been flooding it nearly to the sill, and neither of them would have noticed.  Regardless, Christian stared through the glass, his thoughts collecting.

_"I love you,"_ he sang softly…

_"Can't you see I do?_

_Was I so wrong_

_To think you knew?_

_I've spoken it;_

_I've spoken true:_

_I love you, darling…"_ he stared pointedly into her eyes here, knowing his expression would speak nearly as loudly as – if not louder than – his voice.

_"I love you."_

There was something about Christian's singing that never failed to stop Satine's thoughts in their tracks, turn them around, and lead them straight back where he wanted them.  Tonight was no different, save for that before she knew it, Satine was back in Christian's arms, and allowing herself to be held as he kissed her hair.

_"I love you,"_ he sang again.  She smiled.

_"Don't you know I do?_

_There's nothing hollow_

_To see through._

_I thought I'd shown…_

_But I'll prove anew_

_That I love you, darling…_

_I love you."_

Christian grinned at her, and she shyly grinned back.  Soon, they were dancing around the room to the magical tune Christian had begun, and the air felt considerably lighter than either of them could remember it being for weeks.

_"I love you!"_ he proclaimed, his voice ringing off the walls.

_"Yes, I know you do._

_You love me,"_ she laughed.

_"'Til the sky's not blue!"_ Christian vowed merrily.  Satine, however, ran to the window, and pointed to the clouds, set off by the sun on the horizon.

_"It's pink, my dear."_

_"Well then, that too!"_  They both giggled breathlessly, and Christian pulled Satine to him once again.

_"You love me, Christian," _she sang against his shoulder.

_"That I do!"_

She looked up at him, and he kissed her.  A wild cheer erupted, entirely unrelated to this scene, in a nearby flat, and the two of them simply smiled, each with relief, but for different reasons, for a minute or two.

Then, to Satine's slight surprise, Christian spoke softly.

"But, darling?"

"Yes?"

"What must I do…before you truly love me, too?"

Caught off-guard, Satine let the question go unanswered, instead kissing Christian again, urging him distinctly in the direction of their bedroom.

Unless she had indeed lost her touch entirely, she was certain she could find a way to make him forget his little question quickly enough.

~*~

Satine feigned sleep while Christian affectionately doted over her, pulling a sheet around her, smoothing her hair.  At long last, when his familiar, steady breathing was all that could be heard, she slipped out of bed and reached for his pocket watch, glowing in the moonlight.  It was well after midnight.

After a moment's consideration, she replaced the watch on his nightstand and pulled on her clothes.  Her packed suitcase was ready and waiting where she'd set it in her wardrobe, and she carried it to the door of their room.

Glancing back at Christian, who slept peacefully, with his arm outstretched towards where she'd lain, Satine smiled regretfully.  She set down her trunk and moved to bend over him.

Satine kissed his temple gently.  Christian shifted in his sleep.  "I love you," he murmured again.

She sighed, and whispered, "I know."

And without a sound, she was gone.

(Bwahaha.)

_Disclaimer: _ The names of the characters, the setting, the entire Moulin Rouge story belongs to a brilliant genius named Baz Luhrmann, (and a bunch of other people, companies, etc. I'm sure…).

_Author's note:_  

I love you

Don't you know I do?

You lovely people

Who review

Just giving a quick

Thanks to you

You're wonderful, guys;

All of you!!

Hope that chapter wasn't dreadfully redundant.  And melodramatic.  :/  And…I couldn't help but add the bwahaha at the end.  It was the last word of each of my outlines for this chapter, too.  Bwahaha.  *Goofy grin*

See, I would dedicate this chapter to Bethany, only it's not a terribly pleasant chapter.  So I'm just going to say instead, that I couldn't have done it without her; she suggested that the sky be pink, and that just brought the whole chapter into focus for me.  :D  Not only that, but she beta-read it for me.  Twice.  Love you, darling.

And…yeah.  It took ages 'cause I had writers' block.  How unfortunate.  And 'cause my muse ran out of ribbon.  And 'cause my sister got married Saturday, so we've all been in a lovey-dovey mood – kinda contradictory of the chapter.  The world is collaborating against me….

Um…I'd better shut up before my note is longer than the chapter.


	10. You are far

Disclaimer: The names of the characters, the setting, the entire Moulin Rouge story belongs to a brilliant genius named Baz Luhrmann, (and a bunch of other people, companies, etc. I'm sure…).

Before I even start, I want to disclaim that the song Christian sings is _not mine.  It's sung by Michael Bublé on the __Down With Love soundtrack, called __Kissing a Fool._

Author's Note:  I think I've got to dedicate this chapter to Norah.  :o)  I kept asking about minor characters' lines, and she was so very helpful.  I'm sorry about all the Toulouse lingo you have to decipher – I dislike writing him for that reason.  I've tried not to make it dreadfully confusing or inaccurate…let's see if I succeeded.  I know full well it's melodramatic, so I shan't even go there.  This is, by the way, the second to last chapter.  Enjoy.  Oh, and you know I love constructive criticism.  ;)

Chapter 9

"You want giveaways, you've come to the wrong place, pumpkin."

Satine's original tactic had failed miserably – she should have known Harold wouldn't fall for the pleading damsel-in-distress act.  Begging was _definitely_ not her style, nor her forte – she was sure she hadn't performed very convincingly, as she had slipped in a, 'Fine, I don't need it anyway!  Have it your way, I'll just leave!' whenever her independent image was at stake.  On the other hand, she wasn't one to give up, either.  She had to admit that the 'God, you're not dead yet?' wasn't exactly a warm – or encouraging – welcome, but the sentiment seemed to be unanimous throughout the bordello, which itself was struggling financially, at best.  Infuriated, and…yes, hurt, Satine had returned a fraction of an hour later to try her attack from a different angle.

"You've never done anything for me.  You _owe me," she said, accusation stinging in her voice. _

Harold glared at her, and Satine fought the urge to take a step back.  "We _gave_ you everything, and what do you do,"—he was fairly barking now—"you run off—"

"_I _got_ you everything," she sneered back.  "The publicity, the financer…the bloody talent, for Christ's sake!  Without me, you'd have had nothing."_

He stared at her.  Satine was contorted with fury; her face might have glowed as red as her hair, did her head seem ablaze by her crown of it.  Her eyes flashed dangerously, awaiting his answer.  He didn't deny what she had said.  "But you got what you wanted," he said coldly.

"You said I'd be a star."  The 'you' she spoke of was originally intended to be plural, before she remembered what Dominatrix had called to her upon her arrival.  ("He's dead, y'know."  "Who?"  "Yer Duke.  How's it you ain't?")

"You _were_ the star!" Harold insisted.

"Of a show that failed," she spat in return.

"It failed because of your damned _writer_!!"

"_My writer?" Satine cried incredulously.  Then she said dryly, as if remembering something highly insignificant from years before, "Oh yes, that's right, you mean the one I just _left_."_

"A little late now," Harold growled, and, growing weary of the argument, began stacking coins on his desk distractedly.

Suddenly, Satine felt ill.  She moaned, concealing a gasp as the breath caught in her throat.  But she wasn't going to let him off so easily.  Recovering quickly, she swept the coins from their pile with a swipe – he looked up bewilderedly.  "I had no control over him!" she screamed, now that his full attention was fixed on her again.

Harold wondered fleetingly if she was enjoying this.  He stared as the last coins rolled along the wooden floorboards and then clinked dully as they fell.  Then he stood slowly, his voice rising.  "If _anyone had control over him, it was you."_

"Then I guess nobody did."

"Guess again, poppet.  Anyone could tell from the start that boy was infatuated with you."

"Well, that didn't stop him, did it?" Satine snapped.

"_You didn't stop him, did you?" Harold shot back, meeting her fierce glare._

"I had no idea!"

"Neither did he."

Satine was taken aback.  "What?"

"You think he had any sort of idea what would happen when he sold that play?  He's naïve, gosling."

Satine turned, silent, her breath coming in threateningly short gasps.  Finally, she hissed over her shoulder, "I don't see how this is my fault."

"Nor is it mine," Harold finished darkly.  "You want money, I've got you a job.  Be ready in the Elephant at eight."

Satine's heart nearly stopped.  "The…."

He exited the room, only commenting, "I don't doubt Nini would accept a night off."

As if on cue, Nini slid in the doorway as soon as Harold was out of sight, sporting a brazen smirk.  "Brave customer, eh?  Pay yeh to fuck 'em, even if it kills 'em, too."

~*~

Christian awoke late in the morning to sunlight dancing across his face in a soft pattern, as it filtered through the lace that hung from the window.  Its glow provided a warmth otherwise lacking in the room, and Christian knew before opening his eyes that he was alone.

It didn't take him long to realize what had happened.  (After all, one can hardly ignore the dull emptiness of a missing heart.)  And while Christian didn't understand it, he was morosely unsurprised by Satine's absence.

Silly to think he'd ever truly known her.

"_You are far…when I could've been your star.  You listen to people who scared you to death, and from my heart…strange that you were strong enough to even make a start."_

Perhaps it was Christian's pessimistic side – the one he had probably inherited from his father, but that he refused to admit existed – that had been sure of failure all along.  And yet…there was sometimes a spark of honesty in Satine's eyes, he was sure of it.  Only part of her had wanted this all along.

_"You'll never find the peace of mind 'til you listen to your heart."_

But after all, what sort of relationship began in the belly of an elephant?  And one of Satine's predictions had been accurate, at least; she had had enough of his silly love songs.  In truth, his singing wasn't much brightening Christian's mood at the moment, either.

_"People will always make a lover feel a fool."_

Christian slid to the floor and stepped, barefoot, to the window.  _"But you knew…I loved you."_

It all seemed like such a horrible waste.  A show that no longer mattered, an escape from the place to which she was returning.  (As to where, there was no doubt in his mind.)  _"We should have shown them all…we should have seen love through."_

~*~

Nini circled around Satine indecisively, half desiring to simply leave her there on the floor, before she gave a frustrated snort and grabbed the other woman's pale wrists.

"I'm too good to yeh, ya know that?" she said irritably to a limp, dragging Satine.

"Nah," she reconsidered with a grunt, "You don't know _nothin'_."

~*~

Christian, still at his window, stared off in the direction of the Moulin, and felt as though he could practically see it through the distance.  Somewhere over there was the woman he'd serenaded the evening before.  His mind replayed those events, losing the bitter tone to be replaced by a sad sort of remorse.

"_Fooled me with the tears in your eyes.... Covered me with kisses, and lies…."_

That was it, he decided.  He'd tried.  He had done his best, and failed miserably.  A déja vu-like feeling had settled into his stomach, and he thought back to the poem Satine had found lying about weeks before.

"_So 'bye...but please don't take my heart…."_

~*~

Satine awoke sprawled awkwardly across a plush red bed, staring up at an all too familiar ceiling.  For a moment, she even wondered if perhaps Christian had been merely a figment of her subconscious imagination; wondered what customer she'd just served, and why it was so light out; wondered when rehearsal would begin and if the Argentinean was fit to fill his role of the Swiss poet/goatherd this morning.

These musings burst like a bubble when she rolled to see, not an empty red room, or even a slumbering man, but _Nini_, preparing to leave.

Hearing Satine's movement, she turned with a smug smile.  "Eh, yer awake.  Tha's good."

Thoroughly confused, Satine sat up slowly, her hand pressed to her throbbing head.  "W-…what do you want?"

"Y'know, their jokes are gettin' lame now.  E'ryone knows yer supposed to be dead an' gone by now, but I must'a had five people snortin' that you'd finally done yerself in when I dragged yeh up here, lookin' all pale.  Not that wakin' up's done yeh much good in that respect…yeh might try rouge'n them cheeks some.  Look healthier, you would…."

But Satine didn't seem particularly worried about her coloring at the moment.  "All these years, you've never given a…a _shit about me…well, save for your jealousy," (The latter was an offhanded side note, but it caused Nini to scowl) "and now you mean to say you brought me all the way up here and are worrying about my…my _cheeks_?  What do you __want?"_

Nini shrugged, and headed once more for the door.  "Can't real well take my customer unconscious, can yeh?"

~*~

"_You are far…I'm never gonna be your star.  I'll pick up the pieces, and mend my heart.  Strange that I was wrong enough to think you'd love me too.... You must have been kissin' a fool."_

That was when realization struck.  Christian would never forget Satine.  And, 'I was made for loving you' didn't leave room for short-term relationships.

"_But remember this, every other kiss that you'll ever give, long as we both live: when you need the hand of another man; when you really can't surrender, well…I will wait for you, like I always do!  There's something there that can't compare…with any other…."_

Christian pulled on his clothes and bounded out the door.

~*~

Satine went, purely out of habit, to her old dressing room in search of a proper mirror, avoiding as well as possible all the nauseatingly familiar faces that seemed to take delight in staring at her as if she were the living dead.  The way her head was spinning, she barely noticed them, nor the ramshackle state of the dance floor-turned-theatre-returned-dance floor…nor the nameplate foreign to the door she entered, nor strangely-toned makeup that had replaced her own.  Everything cleared the moment she looked into the mirror, unfortunately.  Certain her hollowed eyes were deceiving her, Satine blinked at her own reflection.  She wasn't sure Nini had the right idea – two bright spots of color stood out oddly on her cheekbones, which seemed more prominent than usual.  On the other hand, other than the dark bluish shadow under her eyes, her skin was indeed a ghastly white.

Satine shakily pinned up her hair, but immediately let it fall again, only further displeased with her frail, porcelain image.

Her own expertise with a powder brush had the life back in her face in minutes, though it gave her a slightly unnatural coloring, not being her own.

Satine's thoughts, as can be assumed, were entirely elsewhere.  She hadn't even considered the possibility of returning to her previous occupation – it hadn't even posed as an option in her mind.  Who on earth would take the risk?  Besides that point, even she cringed at her own reflection.

All she had wanted was money for medicine.  She had held out this long…with treatment, she figured, maybe it _wouldn't_ be impossible for her to live her dream, become the star she'd fantasized about for so long.  Perhaps she _would recover, and travel the world, touring as Satine, second only to the great Sarah Bernhardt._

Not, she thought bitterly, a show or two in Paris in between minding children.

But…a customer?  Tonight?  Why, the idea was abs—

"Satine!"

A dark, bearded head popped inside the door, not far above the knob.  "Satine, it _is_ you!  You'we back!  I bawely bewieved 'em when they told me you wewe hewe – thought they must have been puwwing my weg – but…. Oh, look at the time!  It's aftewnoon alwedy, I'm supposed to ask whewe you awe.  Wehewsal stawted half an houw ago!"

Satine giggled at him.

"Weww, what awe you waiting fow?  Come on, then!"

~*~

Christian glanced hastily at his pocket watch, after stepping from the carriage onto the pavement.  It was only nine.  He would still have time.

And he began to climb the stone steps.

~*~

Satine had always prided herself in being a fast learner.

It helped that she was refused the spotlight and made to dance a rendition of the can-can as Nini sang and danced with a flare and burning fire Satine wondered if she'd ever possessed.

Jealously was not foreign any longer.

Nini watched Satine from her perch on the trapeze with an inexpressible sense of triumph.  Oh, how glorious was the turning of tables!  And the heated glare she was receiving only made the moment more beautiful.

Satine got through their performance that evening, entirely to her own – and everyone else's – surprise.  Though, her dizziness had returned and had yet to subside, along with the ache in her back and hips.

"You're in the elephant tonight, pumpkin!" Harold had called her as a reminder in the midst of the whirling chaos.

"With whom?" she'd asked.

"Man named Jean Dupont."

Satine paced in the red room.  She didn't even want to _think any more.  Jean Dupont…she pictured the man, shaking hands merrily with Christian.  The idea made her sick.  It seemed far preferable to simply get the night over and done with, then take the earnings and escape the Underworld as quickly as possible.  Better yet, maybe she could attempt a flight off the elephant before he arrived.  Or maybe, she thought desperately, Christian would come save her.  To see his face would be reassuring, she had to admit, even after only a matter of hours' separation.  Yes, that seemed like something he'd do._

Then she laughed.  _And leave his precious play?_

~*~

"_You are far…you're always gonna be my star…."_

Christian sighed.

~*~

…Besides, he was too late now, anyway; she'd heard a sound, and then a tap on the door.

Pulling what was left of her act together, Satine opened the gold-plated door, and met the eyes of her customer.


End file.
